


Valuable Time

by reddottedpaper



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Developing Relationship, F/M, POV Stephen Strange, Pre-Doctor Strange (2016), Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-08-25 00:45:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16651075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddottedpaper/pseuds/reddottedpaper
Summary: How did Stephen Strange and Christine Palmer meet and everything around it and their daily lives.This story gives you an insight into the mind of Stephen Strange himself, long before he was a sorcerer.





	1. Chapter 1

Turn the tap,  
  
chilling cold,  
  
wait for it to warm up,  
  
rub palms together,  
  
in between the fingers,  
  
back of the hand,  
  
under the nails,  
  
turn the tap again.  
  
Clean hands mean clean work. Unless you’re one of those incapable fools with a degree that swarmed this damned place lately. Might as well give the scalpel to a monkey at this point. Actually, maybe it would lower the rates of mistakes made during surgeries.  
  
This is the last time I’m fixing an ER patient. Oh yeah, the hospital director is getting a pretty nasty email about this, either they start hiring at least a bit capable doctors or they stop bothering me with it. There’s plenty of other physicians who can waste their time on this. Not me. Unlike those amateurs, I can actually put value on my time. I could be fixing a genius musician’s brain right now, I could be allowing an athlete to walk and run again and I could be doing it at this very moment. But instead I’m opening up an accountant from Brooklyn who got shot by a mugger on the street.  
  
He lived, of course. Flawless work if I can say so myself, and I can. Sometimes I feel almost pity that my hands are used for these cases. Hopefully the dinner tonight will help me take my mind off things.  
  
I left my office at 6pm precisely, at least I get the earned privilege of actually leaving the hospital once in a while. My phone rang as I was leaving the elevator and to my relief, it was the publisher of my latest study. Some distraction is exactly what I need.  
  
“Good evening, Stephen. Just making sure you can make it tonight?” something about his tone suddenly annoyed me.  
  
As if I would end up all night in the ER, clearing somebody’s intestines blockage rather than attend a gala event.  
  
“Yes, Andrew. I can,” I said sternly, followed by a few seconds of silence, “Of course I can. Those inept parodies of doctors from the ER can have all the all-nighters and pagers to themselves,” I tried to exaggerate the tiredness in my voice.  
  
“Great! Glad to hear that,” he laughed and it boosted my ego just a little bit.  
  
Just enough to feel confident that my charisma is still there.  
  
“And I have great news. Davis Rather is sitting at your table. He told me that he’s looking for someone to write an article about. You on the cover of JAMA doesn’t sound half bad, does it?”  
  
I chuckled, “That doesn’t sound bad at all. Andrew, are you my publisher or an agent?”  
  
“Which one gets me more profit?”  
  
“It’s tied, I think.”  
  
He snickered and I felt good, it felt good being the centre of somebody’s life. Be it business, educational or academic reasons. I felt good at top.  
  
“I’ll be there at 7. Looking forward to it,” I ended the call and got into my car.  
  
Once at home I took my sweet time to dress up. Looking sharp felt almost as good as being recognized for it by somebody equally attractive. Which, if happened tonight, I wouldn’t be opposed to. The small incident of taking on a petty little surgery from this afternoon was already far in the back of my head. I was going to enjoy this night. A university gala dinner tonight, plenty of influential people, a charity concert next week, plenty of influential people, plenty of famous people… I smiled to myself. I ended up spending way too much time on which tie I should wear. I decided for a bowtie instead. Nevertheless, I arrived on time.  
  
Once at the dinner, I soon lost count with how many people I shook hands, but I recognized all of them. My ex co-workers and colleagues, friends from college, journalists who published my studies, scientists I’ve worked with. They were all there and glad to see me. It sometimes scared me how calm and natural it felt to be the best. How easily I could ignore all conversations, performances and speeches that weren’t about me. But was it a problem? No. It was all I wanted and I loved it.  
  
About two hours and a few more drinks later, I was sitting at my table and telling a funny story from college, surrounded by a small crowd. Davis Rather stood up and handed me another drink after everybody stopped laughing.  
  
“You’re a charmer, doctor Strange. I wanted to ask, if you’d like to honor me with an interview sometime in the future? A man of your skill is a treasure in medical field.”  
  
“Oh, am I?” I gave him a humble smile and he politely returned it.  
  
“Of course, and you know it about yourself.”  
  
“Damn sure I do,” I took a sip of my drink and grinned into it as I heard giggles all around me.  
  
“So, what do you say? Cover of the magazine and a two-page interview with the best neurosurgeon in the world?”  
  
“I’d say yes to that. It would be my honor,” I offered him my hand and he shook it.  
  
“Likewise.”  
  
“But, tell me,” I still held onto his hand and leaned in a little closer, “What do you want the interview to be about? About my studies? My published papers? Because I’ve been there, done that.”  
  
With that, I let go of his hand and took another sip of my drink.  
  
“Oh. No, nothing boring like that.”  
  
He swallowed the bait.  
  
“We are lately focusing on addressing issues with the medical system as a whole in the US. I would like to know your personal opinion on the topic and your experience from hospitals all around the country.”  
  
I smiled. More me? And this could be a great vent to let out the steam I’ve been building up lately. This sounded more than fine.  
  
“And I would be more than glad to share them, Mr. Rather. It is a deal then. But let’s not bother ourselves with work tonight,” I grabbed another glass from a waitress and offered it to him.  
  
The rest of the night went by smoothly, I found out that Davis Rather likes whisky the best, that there is a new theoretically possible treatment for polio and that my old college professor has gotten married for the 4th time. Life is good, I thought to myself as I stumbled to my bedroom with a beautiful doctor hanging on my arm. I can confidently say that I paid attention to at least a half of her speech about medical science funding. She was smart and charming, seemed like we fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. And we sure did.  
  
A few days later on Thursday, Rather called me. We arranged to meet for lunch and I was ecstatic. Only this morning, a complete tool of a doctor wasn’t able to find a rapture while the patient was already opened up on the table. Who do they call? Good ol’ Stephen to save the day. I was practically moved to the ER department at this point. They wish. I’m going to smear their ER failures in everyone’s faces at that interview.  
  
The time of the lunch came and I met with Rather at my favorite restaurant. Being the professionals, we are, we both waited until we have eaten our food and ordered coffee to fully start with the questions.  
  
“My first question, to you, Stephen, is about your work at the Metro-General Hospital. I’ve heard you’re currently working in the ER department?”  
  
I felt my teeth grit against each other. Heard? From who? Somebody at the hospital officially moved me to that department? Great.  
  
“To be honest, it hasn’t been that pleasant so far.”  
  
Rather’s ears perked up like a dog’s and he got more attentive.  
  
“In my personal opinion, many of the doctors in this department are … less-skilled,” I couldn’t be bothered to try harder in my choice of words.  
  
“It is not necessarily their mistake, an error must be happening somewhere else, in the management, maybe. Because doctors whose time is incredibly valuable are repeatedly called to cases which can be handled by other physicians. So, it’s possible that less-skilled doctors are simply called to cases that are way too hard for them.”  
  
“And then it falls upon your shoulders to handle it. Quite unfair.”  
  
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” I am starting to like this guy.  
  
The interview went better than I hoped and Rather acted his role of an understanding friend great. It was possible I could get in some trouble for throwing dirt at the hospital, but if something isn’t working, you got to shine a light upon it for people to notice and fix it. After about two hours I was on my way back to Metro-General, thinking about ways how I’m going to cuss out somebody in the management for putting me in the ER category.  
  
I barely got out of my car at the garage when a young doctor rushed to me and pushed a patient’s file into my hands.  
  
“Doctor Strange, we need you in room C42. Severe head trauma. Splinters in the brain.”  
  
I glanced at the file and an X-ray and joined the information she told me with what I was seeing. Then I realized that some ER mess-up was literally waiting for me in the garage just to tell me this. It’s like they hunt me.  
  
“You got some nerve in you,” I growled and started running to the elevator, she followed silently.  
  
I took off my coat and shuffled through the pages in the file as she pressed the button of the floor. I was angry but I’m not letting a person die.  
  
“The girl’s got more than just a shrapnel in her head. This is a precise job, no wonder the incapable tools from ER didn’t manage it. Whose ass am I saving? Was it West operating?”  
  
“Mine.”  
  
“Excuse me?” I looked up at her, maybe she just didn’t hear me correctly.  
  
Instead she looked me straight in the eyes and repeated herself, “Mine. You’re saving my ass. I was operating.”  
  
In surprise, I kept the exact same facial expression until the elevator stopped a few seconds later and the door opened. We both rushed out and ran to the operating room. I put on the scrubs while she washed her hands and then she waited for me while I washed mine.  
  
Turn the tap,  
  
“You’re going to assist me? Didn’t you mess up enough?”  
  
chilling cold,  
  
“I need your steady hands, doctor. But I can still help.”  
  
wait for it to warm up,  
  
rub palms together,  
  
Another doctor who got her degree by an accident? It’s a freak case, nothing easy, I admit.  
  
in between the fingers,  
  
back of the hand,  
  
At least she’s got the guts to come ask for help. Most doctors just send nurses.  
  
under the nails,  
  
“Name?” I asked.  
  
turn the tap again.  
  
“Christine Palmer.”  
  
I turned around and a nurse helped me put on the gloves. Christine. Christine Palmer. Have I heard that name before? No, I haven’t.  
  
“Ready, doctor?” she looked me in the eye again and I nodded.  
  
Her assistance wasn’t the worst, the operation took just under three hours. I removed all of the splinters in the patient’s brain, but permanent damage was unavoidable. There was nothing more we could’ve done. And yet, as I exited the room, I saw the doctor blindly staring ahead, watching the patient being moved to a room on a stretcher. These cases get to you, of course they do. But some people just never grow the thick skin necessary for the job. I guess Christine Palmer may be one of those people.  
  
I approached her but I wasn’t quite sure why, did I want to comfort her? Did I want to say something reassuring? I am honestly not sure what I would say. And I never felt the need to comfort a doctor after they have messed up an operation, this moment not being an exception. She was honestly lucky I was coming back at the time to save her ass. I stopped my feet to stand on the other side of the hallway next to her, staring ahead as well.  
  
“She’s only fifteen.”  
  
I looked at her, her face was neutral. Way too neutral, I’d expect her to be crying by now. Many doctors cry, it’s not a sign of weakness. But her face was strict and calm, only her eyes were not really fitting into it. They seeped sorrow. I looked back ahead.  
  
“Maybe next time you should wait for a professional before removing foreign objects of such small scale.”  
  
I really can’t help myself, can I? She gave me a look that screamed both ‘go to hell’ and ‘how could you’ and for a second there, under her gaze, I felt like a despicable human being. I am sure that was her intent.  
  
“You really are such a douchebag.”  
  
“Do people say that about me?”  
  
She laughed at me. Not at a joke I said or a flirtatious giggle, she laughed at me and it made my skin prickle.  
  
“You care only about yourself. Even at a moment like this.”  
  
Well, she’s not wrong. But I’m not wrong either. Does she think she’s the first person to say that to me? To open up my eyes like that? I know I’m self-centric. Should I rather be sad over something I couldn’t control? I choose to be confident, I choose my steady hands over shoulder-shaking cries.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
That, was out of the blue, I admit. I must’ve looked like a deer caught in headlights once our eyes met.  
  
“You saved her life. I screwed up and you helped me. Thank you.”  
  
Not many people manage to swallow their pride like that. I would probably not. I nodded as an acceptance of her apology and she turned around and left towards the elevator. Was that just now an encounter with an ER surgeon of redeeming qualities?  
  
For some reason, that conversation stayed on my mind. It stayed there while I was taking off the scrubs and it stayed there while I was driving back home. I got home and once I shut the door behind me I felt… alone. Very alone. There was a gift basket on my table from someone, I know I have at least a dozen numbers in my phone that I can call for a company for tonight, but somehow that wasn’t enough.  
  
I felt not human. When was the last time I felt sad over a patient who didn’t make it? Such a long time ago. Neurosurgeries’ patients are not usually in life-threatening situations. Still, even the smallest mistake could ruin their lives and yet I am always confident. Do I just not care? No, I care. I do care.  
  
  
I care, Donna.  
  
I miss you.  
  
I went to my bar and poured myself a glass of rum. I sat down on the carpet in my living room with a box in my lap that read ‘why I want to be a doctor’. It felt so nostalgic to shuffle through old photos of us, to see the birthday card she drew for me when she was ten. I can’t believe I’ve kept it all this time. And the tickets to her homecoming, she was so angry that I didn’t want to go.  
  
I didn’t cry but I was close to. I finished my glass and put the box away. Maybe that’s enough for tonight. Enough for a long time again. I did it, Donna. I’m a doctor. And a damn good one too. I won’t let it get to me. I’ll save plenty more people.  



	2. Chapter 2

_Tap,_

_tap,_

_tap tap._

Soon enough, the tapping turned into a full blown drumming session on the windows. New York rain isn't really your usual rain, it's not romantic or pretty, even when movies would like you to think that. This rain is just water falling from the skies, bland and cold. Foreshadowing my day, I suppose. And the coffee I'm drinking is awful, God. I parked my car and headed for my office, thankfully meeting Samantha on the way.  
  
She flashed me a smile, "Good morning, doctor Strange."  
  
"Good morning to you, Samantha" I smiled back and handed her the cup, "Could you get rid of this, please? It tastes like cement."  
  
She took it without question but halted for a few seconds to process my request.  
  
"Thank you~" already walking off, I winked her way and caught a glimpse of her smiling shyly back.  
  
Nurses are the best, really. They get put through a lot and never get the recognition they deserve. Most of them could probably be doctors no problem, but then, who would be of assistance to me?  
  
I was back on my way to the director’s office, light long stride, smile on my face but fury deep inside. I’ve got over a fifty appointments this week and none of them is taking place in the ER, the wasting of my time stops today.

“What do you mean ‘permanently stationed’?!”

“I’m sorry, doctor Strange. The department has been understaffed lately and with so many more accidents happening at this time of the year, you’ll be needed.”

“How so I will be needed?! Stuff it to some other doctor! I have my own patients, I need to focus on-”

“None of those are urgent cases, doctor.”

She really just cut me off, didn’t she. Goddammit, Moriele. Old hag.

She just looked like me like she heard what I was thinking.

“It’s only for a few months, doctor Strange,” she continued sternly, “You can fully focus on your neurology practice in March. You have my word.”

I sulked all the way back to my office. Stuck in the ER for months is not a verdict I wanted. Come to think of it, that means that even my research on laminectomy is being involuntarily put to the back burner. There goes my Lasker Award. I hadn’t even sit down in my chair yet when my door sprung open and there she was; the doctor from yesterday.

“Let me guess, you almost killed another one?”

“This one’s all yours,” she barely huffed some air my way and threw a file on my table.

“That’s an expensive table, you know,” I opened it and flipped the page.

“I’m sure the patient bleeding out cares.”

That made my face scrunch up. I swung to my feet and off the office I went, giving her a disapproving look as I walked by her. I dislike the way she speaks to me. Unlike her, I don’t screw up my operations. Unlike her, I’ve got better things to do. She’s just a lowly ER surgeon.

“I heard that you’re joining us for good, doctor,” her voice rung out behind me and she sounded… pleased.

Oh God.

I rolled my eyes and turned around, “Mock away. But don’t get used to it. I’ve got more important, world-changing operations to make once your little ER department starts hiring its own people.”

“Oh, I wasn’t mocking you,” she was smiling.

What kind of smile is that? Is that genuine? I would even describe that curve of her lips as ‘kind’ but I couldn’t help but hear sarcasm in her voice before. Sarcasm as loud as a boat horn.

“Happy to have you on board, doctor Strange,” now she was walking up to me.

She patted my shoulder.

I just stood there like a statue as she walked off. There was a weird mix of happiness, evil and revenge in that interaction. And not a single drop of the respect I’m used to. That doctor grinds every single gear in my brain.

I arrived to the preparation room and started washing my hands for the operation, trying to drop Palmer off my mind. Preferably from a big height.

_Turn the tap,_

_chilling cold,_

_wait for it to warm up,_

Christine Palmer.

_rub palms together,_

_in between the fingers,_

_under the nails,_

I should read her file. For how long has she been working here? And for how long is she planning to work here with an attitude like that?

_back of the hand,_

_turn the tap again._

Done and ready, I entered the room together with a nurse, Harry Miche. He's quite capable, intuitive and good at following the simple orders I give out. I like the man. Smooth cooperation and no complications, just the way I like my operations.

I was closing the patient up thirty six minutes later. Successful removal of a piece of a fork that was stabbed three inches into this man's shoulder. What a joy.

Washing my hands afterwards, I found myself looking for Christine Palmer in my mind again. She did show some good qualities of a doctor during yesterday's operation, still, she is rude and disrespectful, emotional. These are the people I work with now.

I sighed and left the room, I still needed to check on the patient and pass over his chart. The rest of the day went by like a blur. It felt like my brain wasn't even on most of the time. Simple operations, sometimes only a consultation, the work felt dreadful.

“Hey, Stephen,” came from behind me and I turned to se Gill.

Jackson Gill himself. I couldn’t stop the smile from taking over my face and gladly accepted the hug he offered up.

“Jackson! Welcome back, doctor!”

“It feels good to be back,” he said with relief in his voice, “Good to have an AC above my head again.”

“Yeah, not many of those in Malawi, huh?” I pulled away, still smiling, to take a good look at him.

Somehow, this handsome guy in his thirties looked close to fifty now. His blonde hair was more of an ashy color, it seemed thinner, too, his skin was more tanned than before he left, making the sleepless lines under his eyes more preeminent. He looked goddamn tired, but there was a gleam to his eyes, even brighter than I remembered it being. Flash of hopefulness and dedication. Somehow, the look he was giving me radiated through the whole exhausted sight of him with happiness. I hugged him one more time.

“Glad to have you back, doc.”

“Glad to be back, doc.”

We grinned at each other and I took him to my office, asking a dozen questions on the way. He’d left to do surgeon work in Africa with the MFS over a year ago. I’d told him to stay, to take on opportunities that he had over here, but he wasn’t having any of it. The guy just wanted to do good. And I respect him for that, more than he probably thinks I do.

“I was starting to think you decided to stay for good. That you forgot all about our lil’ ol’ Metro-General.”

“Never could. How are things around here? What about you? Still cocking around with connecting neurons and all?”

“I wish, Jackson,” I sighed and probably sounded more melodramatic than I intended to, “They shelved me at ER.”

“Big Stephen Strange is doing the lowly ER surgeries? No,” he prolonged the ‘no’ just enough to make fun of me.

“Tragedies do happen,” I shrugged my shoulders, “What about you? Coming back I hope? Finally some capable doctors in our ranks.”

He blushed at the compliment, probably not used to it from volunteering work. Perhaps I should teach him how to work with compliments, and accept them, of course. I got decent practice.

“No, Stephen. I’m leaving next week,” he said through a shaky smile.

“Already? You just got back,” I felt sudden urge to convince him to stay, “Come on, Jacks. If not Metro-General, what about Mercy? Washington? Presbyterian End? I can make a few calls, no problem. And if you publish some of those papers you did, you can ride the lecture train. Every university and hospital around the US would kill to have you. Doesn’t sound half bad, does it?”

“Yes,” Jackson said while staring at the floor, he walked up to me and looked me in the eye with such honesty I felt as if I should look away, his lip curled up to show affection, “It does sound bad, Stephen. At least to me.”

“What?”

Perhaps I just heard him wrong?

“This… life of ceremonies and speeches and money and fame. It sounds good to you, Stephen. But to me, it sounds like hell. I’m not that person. I’m not you.”

“Okay, hold on, now. You’re making it sound like-”

“I don't mean it in a bad way, Stephen. That life is good, but it’s yours. It’s not for me.”

I was speechless for a few seconds and that doesn’t happen too often. Jackson patted my shoulder and smiled as if to make up for not accepting my offer. I have to admit, I don’t understand. A doctor of his skill and dedication could change the world from here, too. He could educate and influence, he could be rich, famous and still help. But he would rather sleep in mud and operate while it rains.

“I’m gonna send you a postcard from Zimbabwe,” he winked at me and I smirked back.

It felt weak. It felt untrue. I wasn’t happy that he was leaving. But I can respect his decision.

“I’ll save a spot for it on the fridge,” he laughed and it felt right to make him smile, “Stay safe out there, Jacks.”

“Me? I’ll be fine. I’m more scared for the ER doctors. Don’t strangle anyone, doctor Strange.”

I didn’t realize how much I missed him before he showed up here. I’m gonna miss him again.

We talked for a few more minutes, arranged for a coffee later this week and then he left. Alone back in my office, I felt in my chest pride mixed with sadness. He’s a great doctor and I’m sure he is needed where he’s going, but he could do just as much if not more over here. I couldn’t comprehend his choice.

I walked back to the ER, trying to put the thoughts away for now. I didn’t even reach the reception when paramedics rushed in with a man on a stretcher, his leg painfully visibly broken. Bent almost 90°, the bone protruding from his skin.

“Open tibia fracture,” shouted the nurse and I joined her by her side, “Happened about fifteen minutes ago. The ambulance’s just arrived.”

The patient was covered in snow and mud, blood stuck his clothes to his skin. I shone a light to his eyes, the guy was as pale as a wall but his pupils shrunk.

“Did you vomit?”

He just managed to gasp through his teeth, “What?”

“Did he vomit?” I turned to the nurse instead and put on gloves that she handed me.

“No vomiting,” she answered and my attention snapped back to the patient.

“I’m doctor Strange, tell me your name and what happened,” I carefully pulled away the cut edges of the cloth to look at the wound, the patient sucked in a breath.

“Michael Lazzete. I.. I was playing frisbee, sir.”

“High risk of infection, the wound needs cleaning, and fast. He hasn’t gone into shock. Get him through an X-ray and I’ll take him. OR C14,” I instructed the nurse.

“Yes, doctor,”

They rolled his stretcher away and I ran to the operating room. I put on the gown and stood in front of the sink when the door behind me opened. I looked over my shoulder.

“Doctor Palmer,” I sounded less surprised than I should be, “are you joining me?”

She made her way to the gowns without granting me a single look, looking as rude and stubborn as before. I looked down at the sink.

_Turn the tap,_

_chilling cold,_

“Compound open fracture of the tibia,” she recited as if she was giving a lecture on the topic, “Not a simple operation. You will need help.”

_wait for it to warm up,_

She joined me at the sink and turned the tap in front of her. I gave her a kind of dumbfounded look while I had the lukewarm water running between my fingers. What made her think that I would want her assistance? Before I could say something witty to shut her down, she continued:

“And I would like to gain any experiences I can to become a good surgeon,” she looked me straight in the eye again, “You are one of the best, I would like to be in the operating room with you. Will you have me?”

Something about her voice and the look she had in her eyes kept me still for a second longer than I liked.

_rub palms together,_

I gazed back down on my hands and recovered.

_in between the fingers,_

I smirked.

_the back of the hand,_

“All right. We’ll see what’s in you, Palmer.

_under the nails,_

I heard her sigh in relief and I almost felt bad for enjoying it. She should feel honored indeed.

_turn the tap again._

We got on our gloves while Samantha prepared the OR with a set of clean tools and sterilized the operating table. The nurse from before, Dana, delivered his X-rays just a few minutes later, together with the patient being rolled into the OR.

“We’ll need to properly clean out the wound first,” said Palmer.

There was definitely despise in the look I gave her, was she here to teach me or the other way around? Nevertheless, I let it slide and just nodded. I… am actually not sure why.

“Yes, there’s a high chance of deep-”

“deep bone infection,” she echoed me.

Our eyes met again. Those piercing judgeful blue eyes, glowing like ringlights from her face mask-covered face, were staring right at the bottom of my goddamn soul. It was both scary and endearing at the same time. I started to feel not bothered to have her assisting me, for some reason.

There’s something about her that I can’t hate. She isn’t a bad doctor. She goes to great lengths for patients, that much I know from her practically dragging me from the garage to a surgery. And she wants to improve herself, for that, she gains a bit of my respect. And she’s a sight for sore eyes. Also, kind of rude, but that doesn't cancel those positive factors out.

“Ready?” asked Sam and we both turned to her.

“Ready, doctor Strange?”

“Ready, doctor Palmer.”

  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

The operation was a success, in the highest possible meaning of the word. The wound was on the best possible path to heal without any trouble within a month and a half, the kid's just gonna walk with crutches for the time. I was surprised at the level of precision Palmer showed in the operating room, her hands were steady and sure and the sewing up afterwards was flawless. She impressed me.

We went to inform the family once the patient was wheeled off to a post op room. There were the usual 'God bless you, doctor’ and 'Thank you so much, doctor!’ from the mother's side. And of course, both the parents of the kid went in for the necessary ‘you just saved my child’ hug. I beared through it like I did with every hug before. Seriously, it wasn't even a dead or alive situation, just a broken leg. But once I, quite visibly irritated, looked over at Palmer, I was surprised to not find any sympathy on her part. She looked so content, so happy, embracing the strangers with genuity that seemed almost unimaginable to me. She was empathetic, that's for sure. Looked just as happy as the parents that the kid's gonna be okay. I was wondering whether that's a good thing or not.

I've been working with Palmer for three weeks now. I mean, we both work on our own cases assigned to us but we assist each other frequently. So far, she hasn't made me as mad as other ER surgeons would. I admit to liking her quite a bit.

Her no-bullshit borderline rude attitude is actually refreshing when its backed by skill, which it is in her case. Besides, I like looking at her. Not really in a sexual manner, even when that comes to my mind quite regularly as well, but I caught myself a few times just ... looking. Following the path she draws with her finger when she pulls a loose strand of hair behind her ear or watching her smile when she deals with her patients. With each operation we've done together, I grow more and more fond of her.

I snapped myself out of the daydreaming by shaking my head, I needed to focus on the patient's file in front of me. And just like that, be it luck or bad luck, she walked past me and slapped a paper onto my clipboard.

"Excuse me.”

Honestly, be it anybody else but her, I would be offended.

"Doctor Strange," she said carefully and now had my full attention, "I am working on a new treatment technique. I would like you to take a look at it, if you have time, of course."

"Look?" I scoffed and glanced at the paper, "No, no, you mean 'correct'. You want me to fix your mistakes and make it work."

"No need. It will work, I just want a.. consultation, you may say," she was flustered, "To see if I'm on the right track."

She didn't really like asking me for help, I could tell, but who else is capable of anything in this hospital? I acted as if I was deciding but there were no second thoughts, I shot her a charming smile and leaned against a wall.

"Okay, doctor Palmer," I put her paper inside my file, "We can discuss this at dinner?"

The look she gave me resembled a deer in headlights perfectly. Gosh, she turned pink and it was cute. I enjoy doing this to people way too much.

"Dinner?”

"So at 8 tonight. Where do you live? I will pick you up,” I kept my voice professional. She'll melt like a candle.

“I,” her voice halted and she stared at me until a cheeky smile started crawling across her face a second later, “will send you the address. Thank you for your cooperation, doctor.”

She turned on her heel and left me standing there. I was either having a muscle spasm or she just made me smile. Chuckle, even. Talking to her felt like a battle, a hot crude battle of wills and I was loving it.

I left the hallway and made my way to the waiting room, time to face this day and get ready for the night.

Four skin infection cases, one headache, two stab wounds and a broken arm later, I was just finishing all the painful paperwork when my phone beeped with a message; “29 Wall Ave. Brooklyn, NY 11219”

That smirk that sneaked into my face was completely justified. She fell for me. Does it feel great? Yes. Did I rush out of my office just a bit too fast? Yes.

Once in my apartment, I debated whether I want her to fall into my arms right away or if I'll drag out this little battle of ours longer. Do I go full on James Bond suit charm or go a bit more casual? It took me twenty minutes to choose the casual look, I was going to take it easy with Palmer. Dark blue jeans, black Bugatti shoes, classic white T-shirt and my trusty leather jacket, I looked buckle-in-knees good.

Once the hands on my Blancpain's showed 8 o'clock, I was knocking on Palmer's door like the gentlemen I am. I smiled to myself at that thought. God, I am really self centered, aren't I?

She opened the door and I found an entirely different reason to keep the smile on my face. She looked pretty like I could never imagine. And casual. The usual doctor scrubs were replaced with a black long sleeve shirt, tucked into blue high waisted jeans. She had black high heeled ankle boots and I suddenly discovered a newfound appreciation for this kind of shoes. Draped over her shoulders was a red thick button up flannel, these, I hate with passion, but for reasons unknown, it looked good on her. Also, her hair was down. I liked it.

This isn't my first rodeo, though. I'm not going to just stand here dumbfounded like a college kid. I granted her a confident (and honestly truthful) smile. She didn't NOT notice how I scanned her just a second ago.

“Hi.”

“Doctor Strange,” she watched me closely, as if waiting for me to mess up. Never.

“Palmer,” I owned this situation, “You're a sight for sore eyes outside the hospital.”

I give credit where credit is due. She blushed and laughed, but it wasn't a 'awww stop it’ laugh that I was used to.

“Thanks. People tend to be different outside their work,” she walked past me and closed the door, “Too bad it doesn't apply to you, doctor.”

Was that an insult? It actually did take me a second to recover and guide the way to my car. Which one of us owned the situation now? I felt oddly excited by not knowing.

“I chose a great restaurant in Manhattan. How's Nepalese sound?”

She found it funny, “Any food sounds great after a 12 hour shift.”

“Yeah, but that doesn't mean one can't eat something especially good,” I started the car and left the parking lot.

We weren't even a block away and Palmer took out a folder similar to the one she handed me earlier. I frowned at the road.

“You really are all work and no fun, aren't you, Palmer?”

“I knew you would forget to bring the ones I gave you this morning, I'm just prepared.”

“So am I,” I leaned over her to the backseat and handed her said folder.

“You know, for a doctor, you are really careless behind a wheel,” she murmured in a scolding manner.

That got a chuckle out of me.

“Did you read the paper?” she asked me silently. I think I actually heard plead in her voice. She thinks I took her out only to swoon her.

“Laminectomy procedure with reduced risk of nerve damage by Christine Palmer, Ph.D,” of course I read it. Damn good paper, too. Has potential.

I took a glimpse her way and saw the surprised look on her face, the corners of her lips curled up and radiated with kindness so strong it made me feel like I was sitting near a fireplace. I wonder if she knows that she does that to people.

I smiled back, of course. Proving that people were wrong about me feels almost as good as them admitting it to me later.

“And what did you think?”

“I thought that you're on the right track. But there's an issue with the pressure released once the vertebrae is removed. If the patient had a muscle anomaly or weakness, the procedure could worsen their state rather than improve it. I think it's important you cover that.”

I heard her rest the papers on her lap as she stared at the street passing by, “I didn't think of that.”

“Most people wouldn't.”

“Thanks,” she sounded genuine.

I let the space between us breathe for a few seconds, “No problem.”

We arrived at the restaurant and I pulled out the keys, I was ready to open the door when an all too familiar annoying noise filled my car. It wasn't mine, I left it at the hospital. Of course it was hers. She was already reading the message when I turned to her.

“Shit.. There's an emergency at the hospital.”

“Of course there is, it's the ER,” I huffed and drummed on the steering wheel out of frustration.

“Sorry, I have to go. I'll call a taxi,” she didn't even hesitate and left the car. She's faster than I'd think, I opened my door and she was already hailing a cab.

“You think I'm that bad of a date?”

She turned around confused.

“I'm coming with you. Let's go,” I ducked back into my seat and closed the door without another look at her. Not two seconds later, she was sitting next to me and I drove us to the hospital.

There wasn't any conversation between us but I sensed questions flying around her head. 'Why are you coming with me?’, hell, if I knew I would tell her. Guess I'm just not in a mood for lonely dinner tonight.

I parked the car and we both rushed to the ER. A car crash, poor guy got half his body crushed under his dashboard. The car folded like a goddamn laptop and squeezed him in.

“Doctor Strange!” called the head nurse once she saw me.

“Nice evening to you, too, Dana.”

“The fire brigade cut him out,” informed us a nurse on our way to change.

“High risk of nerve damage then,” Christine seemed to think the same way I did.

“He keeps complaining of pain in his legs.”

“Could be phantom pain,” I took off the jacket and grabbed scrubs, “Prepare the OR, we'll be right there.”

Once we were washing our hands, I went through the usual process.

_Turn the tap,_

_chilling cold,_

_wait for it to warm up,_

_rub palms together,_

“Thank you for coming with me.”

I looked at her and she gazed me in the eyes and once again, she saw into the bottom of my soul.

“Haven't been on call for a while,” I mumbled.

_in between the fingers,_

_the back of the hand,_

“We’ll need you here tonight.”

_under the nails,_

I'm used to being flattered but this compliment felt different. It felt good in a way I haven't recognized.

_turn the tap again._

We put on gloves and entered the operation room.

There was severe nerve damage, as we assumed. The man's vertebrae was squeezing the spinal cord just behind his ribcage. Once we opened him up, we could see that the damage is likely to be permanent.

“Palmer,” I put down the scalpel and waited for her eye contact, “We need to relieve the pressure.”

Her eyes met mine and she looked startled only for a second, she turned to the nurse and commanded: “Prepare saw number 8 for laminectomy procedure.”

“Saw number 10,” I corrected her and the nurse went for the tools.

“We use number 8 for-”

“We are doing your procedure. It's perfect for this case. You can release the pressure on the spinal cord without affecting the nerve endings. It's either this and he walks in a year or he'll sit in a wheelchair for good.”

I didn't grant her another look as I pulled a lamp closer and the nurse wheeled in a tray with the saw. Palmer took it and took a deep breath.

“Are you unsure?” I looked her in the eyes and this time, I'm sure I was the one boring a hole into her.

“No, I am sure,” she answered me firm and clear.

I assisted doctor Palmer with the operation. It went as smoothly as if I have done it. The patient was wheeled off to a post OP room and me and Palmer were washing our hands.

I leaned against the sink as she silently washed her nails.

“Great job, Palmer.”

“Thank you, doctor Strange,” she met my eyes and there was a small hint of pride in her voice. Pride and fear and excitement.

“Stephen,” I said and offered her my hand.

She finished drying hers and inspected my palm for a second, then smiled and accepted it.

“Christine.”

“Yeah, I know.”

She actually laughed at that and again, I felt like she was radiating heat like a star just with her laughter. We let go and got dressed, the clock on the hospital hallway read 01:34.

“I'll take you home,” I escorted Palmer to the elevator.

“Thanks,” she accepted and the door closed.

And then the loudest possible stomach growl filled the whole elevator cabin. She turned red like a traffic light and I tried to suppress the grin on my face, I really did, but failed. Acting like the gentleman I was, I stared at the floor numbers going down and refused to acknowledge how Christine hugged her gut. But what I could do was offer a solution.

“I'm starving. There's one really good Thai place that's still open, just a few blocks away from here. Would you mind if we grabbed something on the way?”

She saw right through me but she looked so happy at the mention of food that she let it slide.

Half an hour later we were sitting on cushioned benches in the only occupied box of the great Golden Leaf restaurant and eating Thai food.

“See? I did promise you a dinner.”

“This is the best dinner I had all week,” she munched on rice and spoke with full mouth.

“Wait, seriously? Lifestyle of ER doctors is this bad?”

“Sure is. I survive on ramen and coffee.”

“Then maybe I should take you out more often.”

She looked a bit startled and her cheeks started to heat up but she kept eating and gave me just a seemingly affirmative mmhm sound. Was she shy? Don't try to play hard to get, Palmer. I know you like me, too.

I finished the kari rice bowl I had and wiped my hands with a tissue.

“Well,” I reached over the table, “At this point, if your pager was turned off,” she snorted, “ I would have offered you a glass of delicious rosé wine and we could have looked over your paper in peace. Instead,”

“We've saved a man's ability to walk and put my theory into practice,” she cut me off.

I halted for a moment and then nodded, got to agree with that, “Instead,” I handed her a soda cup filled with ice tea, “I offer you sugar filled lemon ice tea, the fastest way to diabetes hell.”

She took it and offered it up for a toast as I grabbed my cup.

“On you?” she raised an eyebrow cheekily and I knew she was testing me.

“I've had my fair share of toasts. On you, Christine.” Our cups touched, “And on our new laminectomy procedure.”

She halted, “Our?”

“Well, of course. With my help, it'll be perfect.”

She looked as if she wanted to protest but dismissed it at the last moment. With a little content sigh, she smiled and touched my cup one more time, “On our new laminectomy procedure, Stephen.”

It was almost three in the morning when we left the restaurant. In a good mood and full but understandably exhausted, we both slumped into the seats of my car with a grunt.

“Are you getting up early?”

“Aw, hell,” she looked at her watch, “I'm supposed to be in the hospital in two hours. Just drive me back.”

I chuckled. I didn't want her to go. I didn't want the night to end.

“I seem to have wasted 15 hours of your most valuable time, doctor,” she grinned, “Would it be too much to ask for ten more minutes so you can drive me home?”

“It wasn't wasted,” I looked into her eyes and I was surprised myself at how honestly I meant it. She stopped smiling and looked away, the air in the car was heavier all of sudden.

This is the part where we kiss, isn't it?

“Well, I'm glad you think so,” she said and I knew she meant it.

“Christine,” I wanted to ask something but I didn't know what it was. Will you spend the night with me? Will you go on another proper date with me? Do you feel your heart pumping as well?

And then she looked me in the eyes and her face was bright and her lips formed the most beautiful relaxed smile.

“This is the part where you kiss me, isn't it?”

Well.

“Well..”

“Like all the women before?”

I rolled my eyes and played it off with a smirk. Or I tried to.

“Good try, Stephen,” she smirked back and slurped on the ice tea.

“Drive me home first, please. It'd be super embarrassing if I refused you now and THEN you'd have to drive me home.”

“Refused me?” I actually laughed as I pulled out from the parking lot. Refusal practically doesn't exist in my vocabulary, discarded for never being used or heard.

“I haven't decided yet,” she said and I swear I heard sinister joy in her voice. She was playing with me.

“Not to brag, but there's not many reasons for you to refuse me. I mean, have you seen, me?” I pointed at my whole body just to be sure she gets it and it got her laughing.

“Oh, I have. I sure have.”

I glimpsed her way in the corner of my eye, trying to tell her how suspicious she's acting. She was enjoying herself way too much with this.

I parked in front of her apartment building and turned the engine off, she just finished the ice tea and rattled the empty cup to confirm that it was empty.

I didn't say anything, just watched her with puppy eyes as she yawned and reached for the door handle. There's no way in hell she's saying no. I mean, do I care that much? No. I think. No. She likes me, right? I can read signs well enough.

Her hand dropped from the handle and she turned to me, “Oh right.”

Oh don't act like you forgot.

“I had a really nice time, Stephen…” she said in the most fabricated gentle voice and my eyes rolled to the back of my head.

“Oh please, making fun of me now,” I growled.

Her chuckle stopped only when she leaned in and kissed me.

And was it a kiss. Her lips felt warm and smooth and my heart froze over the moment she touched me, only to melt and boil my blood when she kissed me again. She pulled away and my hand caressed her forearm, resisting the urge to hold her.

She was blushing madly and when our eyes met, I could see her pupils were blown out like crazy. She probably saw the same when she was looking at me.

“Goodnight, Stephen,” she opened the door and left, closing it behind her.


	4. Through Those Piercing Judgeful Blue Eyes, Staring at The Bottom of His Goddamn Soul

I closed the door and my forehead gently hit the oak. I didn’t even let go of the doorknob yet and just breathed for a second, trying to stretch the stupid smile out of my face. Get out of here. What am I doing, giggling and gasping like the quarterback just asked me out. This is what attractive people do to good ol’ me. Especially when the attractive person is the quarterback hospital equivalent. Sexy and smart and tall and charming and... And full of himself.

The smile pushed its way back and I gave up resisting. I actually had a good time. Much less… snobby than I’d thought. But that was by a chance and not on purpose.

I finally let go of the doorknob, the keys flew into their bowl and my feet led me to the bathroom. I’m supposed to be in the hospital in two hours. That’s enough time for a bath and a power nap.

As I was lying in the hot water I tried to focus on specific nothing, trying to clear my head and enjoy the limited time I had, worrying and dealing with nothing at least for a few minutes. But my mind would never be so merciful. The reality of what had happened started setting down on me and with it came the taste of his lips back to mine. Of course he would be a good kisser, why not? Guy had to be total package when the biggest medical capacities and media couldn’t stop kissing his ass. But I have to admit, I get it.

Sitting there in his car and kissing goodnight sounded like a far crazy idea in my head but it was a memory. And an exciting one. Had it not been for the hospital I would’ve invited him inside.

I rubbed my arm and felt his fingers grazing it and it made my skin prickle. 

This is the crazy crush people get. This is the exact type of crazy crush that you know won’t probably work out. But something about him just feels… good. And hot.

I can’t think about this, I scolded myself and got out of the bath. I dropped on my bed dressed in fresh clothes, ready to go to work. I won’t get any sleep, I already know that. Just resting my eyes for a few minutes, that’s all I’m asking for. I prayed only for a short snooze as I closed my eyes.

And of course, that handsome bastard’s face was all I could see.

I was in the hospital at 5am sharp. After I picked up my clipboard and the ordered list of patients, I skimmed through the waiting room and entered the office to switch places with overly grateful Jenny.

“Christine, you are a god sent,” she took off her stethoscope and hung it on my neck despite me already having mine.

“Hard night?” I took it off and rested it on the table.

“The worst. The system went down for a second at 2am and everything was a mess. People had to wait and they were pissier than me when I- How can you smile?”

That just caused my lips to spread more.

“Wait. Weren’t you called here for the car crash, as well? Did you even sleep?”

“Not less than usual,” I sat down at the desk and rolled the chair closer to the keyboard.

“Hang on, hang on,” she grabbed the back of my chair and turned me to face her again, “Dana said something about Strange being here, too. He hasn’t been in this late for years. Was that you? Strange came with you?”

“Yeah, we were on dinner,” I said casually but who was I kidding.

Jenny gave me the biggest smirk followed by a scolding huff, “He’s quite the ladies man, isn’t he?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” I gave her a confident nod and logged in.

“Don’t get burnt on how hot he is, Christine,” she said with the care of an older sister and patted my shoulder.

“And be treated by you? I like my skin scar-free, thank you.”

“Oh har har,” she pinched my arm and I acted hurt as she waved me bye and left.

Stephen Strange is as hot as a supernova but that doesn’t mean I’ll burn into ashes because of him. I can focus on my work and life without him interfering or ruining it in any way.

That’s exactly what I told myself as I called in the first patient, Ms. Joyce Aidmane. And that’s exactly what came back to bite me in the ass as I couldn’t for the sake of me listen to her describing her injury because Stephen’s smile played like a loop in front of my eyes.

I did push through and managed to hide this attraction frenzy for a few hours, dealing with the patients one by one. Mr. Simps got bitten by a dog, Helena Richards came in with an infected belly ring, three cases of identical inflamed rash on three different people, only two of which were married and one migraine that turned out to be a bad case of dehydration. After hooking up Mrs. Hudson with an IV, I went to check on the patient we’d operated last night.

The room was comfortably warm with the noon sunlight shining in, its sunrays gave the bland hospital walls at least some color. Charles Hebert was in stable condition after the operation, stuck on fluid nutrition but other than that, he was doing well. Most importantly, he was in good spirits, despite being bandaged all over and having a corset around his torso and a metal splint sticking outside of his back.

“Thank you, doctor,” he muttered and looked at me with old kind eyes.

I smiled. I never know what to say to that but I feel immensely grateful every time I have the opportunity to hear it. Come to think of it, the smile suddenly froze on my face when I realized that if it weren’t for Stephen, I wouldn’t have performed the new procedure.

I wouldn’t have thought of it when it wasn’t even properly approved, only by him. But he knew what to do and had full confidence in me without a question. I knew I could do it. But… Stephen Strange is the reason this man is smiling at me, knowing he will walk again.

“I wasn’t the only one in the operating room,” I looked at his bruised still swollen face, “One of our best doctors, doctor Stephen Strange, was the one who lead the operation. He’s an absolute elite in neurosurgery and he was the one to recognize the damage and choose the correct surgery procedure. I just held the saw.”

Mr. Hebert made a little painful nod and contently closed his tired eyes, “Then I have to thank him, as well.”

 “Yup,” I went and checked his IV and the monitor, not wanting to upset him with the information that Stephen Strange rarely visits his patients outside of operating rooms. Everything looked just fine and I left the room with a hopeful prediction of speedy recovery, which Mr. Hebert appreciated.

I grabbed a quick lunch on the way to my own office, that I haven’t visited in a few days, chatting with Nic on the way. He wanted to consult me about one of his cases and I was happy to help, but all I could think about while talking to him was how Strange likes to pick on him every chance he gets. Be it as unprofessional and childish as it gets, it was funny to me. Nicodemus was a great surgeon, without a doubt. He’s helped me with at least a dozen of my cases and we formed a habit of consulting each other when we hit a rock in treatment. But right now, I was giggling for no reason and he stared at me like I just grew a second head.

“I’m so sorry, Nic,” I spoke with full mouth and wiped the sandwich crumbs from my chin, “I can’t focus today. Is this urgent?”

“I guess it could wait,” he muttered and gave me a bit judgeful look which I didn’t appreciate, “That’s the lack of sleep, Christine. You really shouldn’t overwork yourself.”

I gave him the usual smile and nod and waved goodbye as I devoured the rest of the sandwich and entered my office. I know what he said is true but what am I supposed to do? Not work? That’s not how my brain works, unfortunately. A weekend spent watching romcoms and eating popcorn doesn’t sound half bad, though.

The comment he, Stephen, made on my paper, it was itching my brain, right behind the picture of his awfully handsome smile. The case of muscle weakness or muscle anomaly and how it affects the results of the procedure.

My mind sunk into the paper, ending up with 8 extra pages when I heard a knock on the door. It was already getting dark outside. For how long have I been writing? My eyes sting from staring at the monitor and I feel my head getting heavy.

“Come in,” I called out and saved the document.

“I really can’t,” murmured his voice.

My eyes snapped to the door, “Stephen?”

I got up and opened the door to see him standing there with two cups of coffee in his hands. I glanced at the coffee and felt my mouth watering, then up at him and once again, felt my mouth watering. I had to be blushing, I was sure of it.

“Cafeteria coffee? I’ve heard they’ve reduced the percentage of swamp water it had.”

“You brought me coffee?” I had to sound more surprised than I meant to. That’s an actual nice gesture. And I’m dying to grab that coffee right now.

“I brought US coffee,” he said nonchalantly, handed me a cup and sat his nice ass into the chair in front of my table.

I just managed to slowly close the door and eagerly took a sip while he tried to wobble the chair.

“This is a terrible chair. I’ve got a sofa in my office, should we go there?”

 That grin he had after seeing me chuckle made his face even more attractive.

“What do you need, Stephen?”

“Need? No, Christine. What do YOU need?” he promptly presented himself with open arms and I blushed, thinking this is going to take a naughty turn.

“The answer is me,” he said after a short pause, seeing that I didn’t get it, “You need me. You are writing your paper, are you not? I mean, our paper.”

Oh.

Stupid brain. Did he notice that I turned red? He’s smiling. Of course he did. I hid my face with the cup as I took a big swing of the coffee, which was awful.

“Right. Yeah, I am,” I made my way back to the computer.

“And I’m co-writing,” he leaned on the table and turned the monitor to him after asking permission. After quickly scanning the text, he brought up a few arguments and we started to discuss it. His presence in my office felt like the most natural thing. We covered the cases of muscle weakness, anomaly and shrinkness and the whole time we were both professional and yet… friendly. It felt good. To work together. To be together.

My eyes caught the time, it was almost 9 and Stephen showed no sign of slowing down. My table was full of notes and scattered pencil sketches of anatomy and bones and in the midst of it all sat this beautiful genius man, reading my work word by word and praising it and adding to it. And I caught myself gazing at him like he was Michelangelo’s David. Actually, I’ve seen Michelangelo’s David. Strange was handsomer. And more alive which gave him bonus points.

“Don’t you have a charity dinner or some gala to attend?” I asked while still watching him.

His eyes looked for me as he surfaced from the depths of medical terminology and he looked at the time as well. I was half expecting him to spring out of the chair and run to get a suit and a bowtie.

“Not really,” he answered and went back to reading, at least he seemed to, “Why? Is my presence undesired?”

He looked at me through his lashes and smiled and if I wasn’t sitting I’d fall.

“No. The opposite,” I answered and realized that we were looking into each other’s eyes, “We did a lot of work today. And the procedure is looking great. Thank you. Again, for helping me,” was my attempt at staying professional.

“No problem. You had the idea.”

“It’s just that you rarely stay this late, isn’t it?”

He caught onto my words and his expression changed, “You think I’m staying here because of you, don’t you?”

He had this shit eating grin on his face and he looked so sure of himself. He’s smart and self-aware, of course he was sure of himself. He had a good reason to. I smirked right back and bit my lip, “Oh I could never hope, doctor Strange.”

This is only the second time I made fun of him and I can say he already hates it, it’s cute.

“Well, it’s true,” he said once he was done rolling his eyes, as if it was completely obvious, “Time with you is… not as bad as I’d thought.”

“Ohoh… You thought of time with me?”

His laugh gives me tingles.

“Just as much as you have thought of time with me.”

He got me there, the bastard, “Well, it’s not so bad so far. But time will tell.”

I flashed him a smile and he got up and walked around the table to me, holding his notes in his hand. Looking down at blushing little me, he gave me a warm smile that I’m sure he doesn’t even know he can do.

“What will time tell?”

“How much I can stand you,” I tried to keep the lightness in my voice but who am I kidding. The air between us weighted down with tension. The sexual kind of tension. I wanna kiss him again and I saw the same in his eyes as the corners of his lips twitched upwards.

“We’ve done a lot today. You did, for sure. Aren’t you tired?” he asked me and if he didn’t mention it, I wouldn’t even notice how much I actually was tired.

“Tired is my constant state of being.”

“Well it’s not a healthy state of being,” he dropped his notes on my desk and then leaned over and saved and closed the document, “Go get your stuff and go home for today.”

He put his hands in his pockets and looked down at me with care. And I believed him because his eyes spoke honestly. I sluggishly got up and nodded, “I should. Thanks again for the help.”

“No problem. You here by a car? I can take you if you want.”

I glanced at him and had a devilish smile hanging on my lips without realizing, “That’d be.. good. Thanks.”

He stopped the car at my buildings and again, there it was, that moment I dreamed of and dreaded at the same time. He looked at me so confidently it made me want to refuse just out of the fun to spite him but instead, I leaned in.

And there was the kiss again. It wasn’t the same, no matter how well I could recall it from the night before, it was better. It tasted sweet and slow and heavy like a warm blanket on a winter day and my hand needed to feel the heat of his cheek and his apparently wanted to get lost in my hair.

We both pulled away and my fingers fell to his chest and I let them stay there just because I felt as if I fell apart without the physical contact. I looked into his eyes, the blue was almost gone and my lips fell open in a smile.

I suppose this is rational. What else am I supposed to do, working and having a good time with this man?

“Stephen, do you want to come-”

“Inside with you?”

I smirked at feeling his heartbeat start racing.

“Yes,” he pulled the keys out of the ignition and kissed me again.

And then I kissed him back. And then there was stumbling in the general direction of my apartment.

And then there was a very very nice night.


	5. Chapter 5

Delight.

That's the word I'm looking for, isn't it? The word to describe what I feel right now, lying on cold sheets, sweating from heat that's not my own. Look at her eyes, she's smiling and it's for me. That distant kind beam of kindness that seemed so foreign and now it's meant for me. I'm standing in the middle of it and it fills me with energy and... I feel humbled. I never in my life felt humbled after sex, what's wrong with me? 

“What are you doing to me, Christine?” I mumbled behind her ear and she pressed her evil smile into my chest. 

Content, I closed my eyes and drifted off with her purring in my arms.

I woke up and Christine was gone. Hurt and abandoned, I sat up on her bed and wondered where'd her manners go. Even I always kiss a date goodbye, and I'm quite the Casanova if I may say so myself. I grinned a bit and got up, picking up my clothes that were folded on her bedside table. No romantic note with a mark of her lips? No roses for good ol’ Stephen?

My phone buzzed once I picked it up and I saw a message: “Some people still work shifts. Help yourself to a breakfast, doctor Strange.”

Her words tugged on the corners of my mouth again. It's usually me who gracefully leaves the stage. Picture of naked Christine climbing over me out of bed and rushing to work tickles me funny, but at the same time embarrassing. Stephen Strange never sleeps like a brick. Or do I?

I dressed and left her apartment despite her suggestion because, in my opinion a much better, idea has settled in my mind.

“Stephen, oh my God,” she said as she dropped her clipboard.

“I was expecting an ‘awww’ or a ‘thanks’ but I guess I can go with taking the Lord’s name in vain as well.”

She awkwardly stood in place until she approached me and examined the paper bag in my hand more closely. She didn’t turn red until she saw the bagels inside, taking one while simultaneously grabbing the cup of coffee I held in my other hand. She pretty much stuffed the whole thing into her mouth while looking at me very dismissively. 

“Did you really just bring me breakfast?”

“Considering it’s already down your throat and I’m not getting that bagel back unscathed, yeah.”

She laughed and almost choked, I chuckled a bit myself. Why does this feel so easy and effortless? This is almost scaring me. But am I scared? Really scared? No. This isn’t anything I haven’t done before. She’s just good company, just like me. And I like to live up to my reputation. 

“Thank you,” she struggled to say with her cheeks still stuffed.

“You’re welcome,” I answered and wondered whether the blush was still on her face because of the food. 

I don’t feel a need to talk about our night. I just know that I enjoyed it, very very much. And I’m more than open to repeating it. But somehow, I feel like I don’t need to say that out loud. She gets it. Something in those big blue eyes gets it. 

I winked her bye and left to go to an operation room that needed me. I’m pretty sure I had a shit eating grin on my face the whole day but luckily none of the heavily sedated patients complained. The nurses didn’t either. I feel weirdly happy. Was it the sex? Was it her smile? What is this annoying pressure in my head? It has Christine written all over it and it’s explicit pictures of her flashing in front of my eyes. I mean, I’m not complaining.

Broken ankle, a fractured tailbone - ouch, foreign body in an eye, today’s cases were more than boring and yet, I didn’t catch myself wanting to die yet. I hang up my stethoscope and was about to leave when I  heard the door to my office open and I sighed extra hard to make it heard and leaned against the wall.

“No more patients, Sam. I’m done for tonight, thanks.”

“Yeah, staying to take care of patients is just for incapable ER surgeons, right?” that voice ran through me like a blade and I knew exactly whose voice had the capabilities to do that.

I turned around and saw Christine, instantaneously, I relaxed a bit, but then my eyes met hers and it was like hitting a brick wall head on. Her eyes stared into the bottom of my soul again and there was no warmth this time. I was standing in the middle of a freezer with no clothes on and an industrial strength fan blowing on me and I could not move. I tried to laugh a bit, was this a battle again?

“Well, not you, of course.” 

She did not return my smile. Her lips were a straight line as she approached me and ever so calmly handed me a stack of papers. I looked down at it. JAMA magazine and me sitting in a comfy chair with coffee in hand on the cover. Smiling from ear to ear with big white letters saying “Dr. Stephen Strange reveals why are ER surgeons slowing down a hospital”.

This is not really happening, is it? My own words coming back to bite me? I mean, I was right. I meant every word. Just because… because Christine is.. Wait.

“Christine,” I said in a tone that meant to stir this whole situation into ridiculousness and silliness. But she didn’t let me finish.

“I’m sorry I took up so much of your _valuable time_ , doctor Strange,” she said while staring right at me and with her voice firm and steady, “It must be so hard for you to spend it among us, _less-skilled_ ,” God, she was quoting the article, she was quoting me, and it stung, “You can be sure it’s just as pleasant for us, as it’s for you.” 

She made me take a step back and then turned around and left. And the cold didn’t leave with her, it was still here, making the hair on my neck stand up. I sighed and leaned against my desk with my head in my hands. I couldn’t even look at the damn thing and just threw it in the trash. I feel like I’ve been scolded and this time I actually deserved it. 

Did I mean those words? What did I even say? I meant it, sure. And I was RIGHT. But… It wasn’t right. Was I? 

No, no. I was right. What does she think she is? That she’s a special snowflake that everyone will treat with care? ER IS the slowest most talent-killing ward in the whole hospital. And most of the surgeons are incapable like a monkey with a wrench. Christine is… Christine is not incapable. She’s a good surgeon. I respect her work. But she always knew my opinion. It’s the whole reason why we didn’t get along at first, isn’t it? What does she expect? Special care because we slept together? That I’ll change?

I laughed at the absurdity. That’s ridiculous. Why am I here, feeling bad? I shouldn’t be the one feeling bad. I’m on the cover of the goddamn JAMA magazine, I should be congratulated, not hated. 

Half angry and half confused, I grabbed my coat and left my office. I said bye to the nurse, acting as charming and confident as usual. I’m not going to let this get to me. Where would I be if I was touched by this? I went and changed and then took the elevator down to the garage. 

What was she thinking?

I unlocked the car and slumped down into the driver’s seat. 

Who’s in the wrong here? Me? 

I felt the leather on the driving wheel under my fingers.

No. I’m not wrong.

I turned the key and the car purred under me. That put me to ease.

She’s oversensitive. It’s her fault.

I let out a sigh and drove out of the garage. I was just a few blocks away from the hospital when my phone rang.

“Stephen! Andrew here! Did you see the JAMA already? Guess what handsome face is smiling at me from the cover.”

I felt sharp pain somewhere near my ribs for reasons unknown to me. My brain battled with a mixture of feelings that weren’t exactly happy as I pushed through all of them and chose one; pride.

“I sure did, Andrew. They got my good side, you noticed?”

“Yeah! Hid the hideous other side of your face quite well!” 

I chuckled. It didn’t even feel too forced.

“We need to celebrate this! What about a drink on me tonight? BlackTail? At 9?”

I don’t feel up for a drink.

“Of course, sounds great. I’ll be there. Don’t order me those disgusting margaritas like last time, please.”

He laughed into the phone and I smirked to myself. I can make people laugh, I feel good about myself when I do.

“See you at 9, Stephen!” sang Andrew and the call ended.

I pulled up in my parking lot and silently and thoughtlessly entered my building and got into the elevator. It was only when the elevator dinged at my floor number that I felt my stomach turn itself upside down. I gulped down the lump in my throat and felt myself sweating, I tugged on the collar of my shirt to get some air. I checked my pulse, why is it beating so fast? I walked to my door at a fast pace and barged in and closed it behind me. Did I eat something bad? I moved to my bathroom and filled the sink with cold water to bury my face in.

_ Cold. _

_ Feel it cold. _

I’m not sick.

I’m feeling guilty.

I resurfaced and cold water splattered all around me and on that expensive bathroom rug under my feet. My hair was sticking to my forehead and dripping with ice that pierced the skin on my hands.

I looked at myself in the mirror. 

I was right maybe.

But it wasn’t right.

It wasn’t right to the surgeons.

It wasn’t right to her.


	6. Chapter 6

I dropped to the floor and rolled over, leaning against the cold wall. My breath had utmost difficulty just passing through my throat and I felt invisible hands squeezing my ribs. I wish they squeezed harder and my lungs burst and splattered all around the inside of my ribcage, just to end this goddamn pain.

Grunting like an old man, I grabbed the side of my sink and climbed back up to my feet just to see a face in the mirror that I didn’t recognize. 

Where’s that handsome charm of mine? Why do I look as pale as the walls in my first apartment? Why do my eyes look so tired?

I felt myself still as the room rotated, my brain felt fuzzy and my head heavy and my legs were about to give away when my phone buzzed. Somehow, it woke me up from the enclosing haze and I walked into my living room, picking up the call.

“Doctor Stephen Strange,” I muttered as clear as I could and pinched the bridge of my nose to ease the headache.

“Hey, Stephen. It’s Andrew again.”

I responded with my usual ‘hmm’ to acknowledge him and Andrew continued on.

“I just wanted to ask if you’d mind a friend of mine coming along? You might’ve heard of him..”

Even in my poor state, I could recognize the mischief in his voice and knew what it meant.

“He’s one of the partners at GNYHA and he’s read somewhere that they’ve been treating you poorly at the Metro General,” cooed Andrew to my ear. 

I halted in the middle of the circle I was stomping into my carpet.

_ Read somewhere. _

I shuddered and I hated myself for shuddering.

“Hello? Stephen? Can you imagine a better opportunity? Every hospital in the city would kill to have you. It’s time to start negotiating for the highest paycheck!”

“I know, Andrew. I realize,” I steadied myself, I need to get back together, “That really does sound like a sweet deal, doesn’t it?”

Andrew laughed and it actually widened the smile I artificially summoned on my face.

“Hell yeah, it does! All right. I’ll see you in a bit! Don’t be late. He’s a cranky old guy, you know how they come.”

I chuckled, “See you at 9, Andrew.”

The call ended and I welcomed the silence as it embraced me. Think rationally, Stephen, I told myself and I was repelled by the fact I was apparently talking to myself now. This is exactly what I wanted. To ruffle some feathers up high in the hospital, to voice my honest and reasonable concerns with me being stuck in a trained monkey’s job, to get better offer, better anything to get out of the ER. 

The cursed ER. I hated working there.

I hate.

I hate working there. I never stopped hating it. Twisted ankles and broken fingers and skin infections, it’s as if someone decided to drop a trash can on my head when they assigned me to that ward. Even if only temporarily permanently assigned, that ‘temporarily’ is not big enough and the ‘permanently’ is a nightmare material. Screw you, Moriele. That’s what you get for being incompetent in hiring petty surgeons and misusing neurosurgeons of my caliber. 

This ought to be it, right? The outcome I’ve wanted this whole time. Go for a few drinks, get offered a place of the head neurosurgeon at Greater New York, leave for the greener pastures. I’ll have the time and space for my projects, for the paper I wanted to write, I’ll get the respect I deserve. Yeah, that’s the right path. 

And I hated the little voice in my head saying that I don’t want to take it.

I like working at Metro General. Or, I used to. I got plenty of students, some even good ones, at the hospital. That can’t be sad about most of my colleagues, unfortunately, but there were a few exceptions. Like Christine.

Christine wasn’t so bad. For an ER surgeon.

I told her a lot of times that she could’ve been the best physician in whatever field she chose, but no, she wanted to do this. She wanted to be stuck at the ER, with a cup of cheap vending machine coffee and with black bags under her eyes. 

I never understood that, why would a person choose to be stuck like that? With working hours from midnight till midnight and with an army of clumsy hurt people waiting at the door every second of the day. She must have an absurd level of patience. Or just no level of ambition. Or both.

Does it matter? Why am I thinking about her? She got apparently hurt by what I said in the article. The exact words that just got me a drink with one of the partners at the best hospital in New York. Should I feel bad? No, of course not. I’m not about to feel bad. If she’s so petty and soft, then she can feel however hurt she likes. She knew about my opinion of the ER, long before we started working together. 

I bet that’s a part of the reason why she disliked me at first.

It’s the reason why she dislikes me now, for sure.

As if in a limbo, I walked over to my bar and poured myself a glass of whiskey. About two sips in, I felt better. More like myself again, at least, and that was enough. I went to take a shower and shave, I got a bar to be at in a few hours after all. When I was choosing a jacket I found myself looking forward to the meeting, the doubts and senseless headache were long gone. I’m about to be me and I’m about to be great, as I always am, after all.

When I got to Manhattan, it was 8:54. I dislike being early and I dislike being late, I’ll be right on time. It’s not like I need to make an impression on the guy. But on the other hand, it’s not nice keeping someone waiting.

I parked my car and hopped up a few stairs just to be greeted by excited Andrew and Charles Berry, looking at me through a cocktail glass. 

“Pleasure to meet you in person, Doctor Strange,” he smiled at me as we shook hands.

“And you haven’t seen me operating yet,” I chimed back and his shoulders bounced as he laughed.

We sat down at a table and while Charles Berry offered a first name basis between us Andrew ordered his terrible margarita, I settled on a glass of Navy Island. 

“So, Stephen. I read an article about you.”

“Ah, you did?” I tried to look surprised and hid my lips in the glass.

“It was amazing. Honestly, me and my colleagues couldn’t agree more with your point of view. Many staff at hospitals have such great potential but it’s just stomped out with meaningless tasks.”

This man was singing what I wanted to hear but that didn’t stop me from nodding my head and agreeing.

“That’s exactly why I’ve wanted to meet you, actually.”

I acted surprised even more and shared a raised eyebrow with Andrew. 

“Stephen, a neurosurgeon of your class definitely shouldn’t be treating cold sores at the ER. We at Greater New York are looking for someone to fill in the gap in our neurology department,” he took a sip of his cocktail and smiled for himself, not for us, “Well, how to put this lightly. Stephen, we want you. I don’t think you expect any less than a six figure salary, and your own office and assistant. You’ll have all the space and time for your practice, you’ll be treated with respect you deserve.”

The huge shit eating grin that sprawled over my face wasn’t really even my fault, “Well, Charles. What can I say, I can’t say I didn’t hope that you’d tell me that.”

His big chest resonated with chuckles and Andrew ordered another round of drinks.

“That’s an offer that’s hard to say no, to.”

“Then it’s a yes?” raised Charles his new glass and I met it with mine.

“It’s a very tempting maybe,” I smiled at him, “At least until I’m sober.”

We toasted and the old man looked as happy as could be, taking my answer as a yes. I wasn’t sure if I minded it or not, I said maybe for a reason, I don’t like making decisions while intoxicated. That never stopped me from driving though, so, maybe I should kick myself in the ass. I could bet a fifty that Charles will start to sway me to be sure.

“You’re not thinking about being loyal to Metro General after treating you like that, are you?”

Well, who would’ve guessed, I was right. He’s offering me a really good position, maybe even better than I have now. Well, definitely better. But Metro General treated me well, until recently at least. 

I shot him a mocking frown and he looked pleased, mumbling while staring into his glass, “It would be a real pain if another doctor denied us for Metro General.”

“Another doctor?” my senses resurfaced from the sea of self-glory.

“Yeah, one of our recruiters reached out to a surgeon in Metro General about half a year ago. Doctor Christine Palmer, I think. Amazing results in school, great references from her practice. We wanted her in our general surgery department but she opted to stay in Metro General. What a shame,” he took another sip, “Do you work together? She must be pissed off just as you are, eh? Any chance she’d defect as well?” 

He and Andrew laughed but my facial muscles were stiff, “No, I don’t think so.”

“I’m sure Stephen could sway her somehow,” nudged me Andrew.

I played it off with a twitching lip and excused myself.

_ Turn the tap, _

_ chilling cold, _

I stared at my hands and my head was completely empty. I couldn’t begin to comprehend the situation let alone start washing my hands.

_ wait for it to warm up, _

I’m not surprised that she got reached out to, I’m not. She’s a skilled surgeon. I’m surprised she didn’t accept. I’m surprised she stayed and became a centerpiece at the ER. I’m surprised that I just got offered a position because I shit talked everything she stands for.

_ rub palms together, _

I can’t. I can’t move my hands.

I started laughing.

What an irony.

 

When I left to drive home it was 2.25am. By this time a few weeks ago, me and Christine ate great greasy Thai. I shook my head and regripped the wheel, I shouldn’t be thinking about this. At least not tonight. I promised Charles that I’d call the next week. Just to “decide when to move my office” for him, whether it’s a yes or no for me. I arrived home and headed for the bedroom, checking my phone on the way. Thirty seven messages and none of them from Christine. 

It’s not like I wish she’d call. What would she say? “I forgive you, let’s have sex again.” Jesus, is that what I’m thinking? Do I want that? 

First of all, I don’t want her to forgive me. I don’t intend to apologize. I just wish that she knows I…

I don’t think of her that way.

I didn’t want to hurt her.

 

“It’s okay, Stephen,” she said calmly.

“Is it? I just offended your whole ward.”

“Yeah, but that’s just you,” she shrugged and it hurt.

“Is that what you think of me?” I asked.

“Of course,” she smiled and approached me, resting a hand on my chest, “I always knew you were an asshole.” 


	7. Chapter 7

I woke up.

Thank God, I did.

Sweaty and uneasy, I slugged my way out of bed and splashed some cold water on my face in the bathroom. The great doctor Stephen Strange is being drown in guilt, is he now? How pathetic. If I could open up my own head I would rewire a few of the goddamn nerves and get this over with. 

Great, now I’m having nightmares, starring; Christine Palmer. Why can’t it be a wet dream, why does it have to be a wet nightmare where I wake up soaked in sweat? This isn’t good for me. This isn’t good for anybody.

I knew that sleep is a no no at this point and I dressed up and moved to my kitchen to get some food in me. What am I now, a teenager after a bad breakup? Not even able to eat? Please. But the eggs I made did taste bland. That’s the worst breakfast I’ve had in months, actually. I ate maybe a three bites before throwing the rest in the trash. I guess I’ll eat properly during lunchtime.

On my way to the hospital, I realized that the last time I worked before dawn is so far back in my memory I can’t even put down a year, let alone month. Maybe it’s not a bad idea to try it again, just to see if I didn’t forget what it’s like to work so early most coffee shops are not open yet.  Try it one last time before I depart for Greater New York, perhaps.

Of course, this means that I can meet Christine, as she probably works right now despite not leaving the hospital for 48 hours straight. I feel a bit… scared, is it? No matter how ridiculous that sounds. But at the same time, I’m not about to avoid her just for the sake of it being her. I’m a professional. And she is a professional, what will she do? Make my life hell? Nevermind, scratch that idea of being scared, I don’t have anything to be scared of.

Besides, Christine isn’t a vengeful person. No matter how much hate and spiteness I saw in her eyes yesterday, there was no vengeance. She’s not the right person for that.

I should really just stop thinking about her. Clear my head. Make smart decisions about the future regarding the hospital. Make smart decisions in general. 

And yet, as I was pressing the button on the elevator, Christine hindered my mind from moving on. I feel like my genius brain is trying to tell me something. And while my eyes watched the floor numbers roll, I’ve come to a conclusion that doesn’t seemed far off from the truth.

I don’t want to hurt Christine. I don’t want to be the person who hurts someone like Christine.

Someone good like her.

But I still did. And I’m completely clueless at how to fix this. I’m too proud to fix this. And I’m okay with it, how am I okay with this? It’s like I can’t walk through a door that’s wide open and it’s driving me insane.

The elevator door opened with a ding and in front of me stood Christine, wide eyed like a deer in headlights yet again. 

“Stephen,” she let the surprise slide off her like droplets of rain but it was replaced by a surprise of different kind, surprise of me even being here, “Isn’t it a bit early for you?” 

How does she do this, sounding so nonchalant and normal? Is she not mad? 

“I thought I’d stop by, been a while since I’ve had a night shift.”

I don’t want her to know that I didn’t sleep. 

She let out a little ‘ah’ in acknowledgment of my answer and then pushed past me inside the elevator, “Well, you always considered it below you.” 

She is mad.

The door closed after she pressed a button and we just stood there, silent, eagerly waiting for the floor numbers to go by faster. I felt tension, but it wasn’t what I’d imagined. It wasn’t painful, awkward or uncomfortable. It was just that, tension. Stress on the back of my skull, threatening to crack it open with the peripheral sight of Christine by my side. It’s like my own mind is nudging me to talk to her, to fix this.

But what would I say? Apologize? I’m not going to apologize. I don’t want to lie to her and I would be lying if I said I didn’t mean it. But I AM sorry. Still, being sorry while standing by my words seems like a fake out. And she would see right through that. I can already feel the spike of cold piercing right through me when she looks at me. 

I’m overthinking this, maybe I should simply talk to her. Tell her that I didn’t mean to hurt her? That sounds… stupid. That wouldn’t work at all, she’d laugh in my face.

And with a ding, all my thoughts were gone and so was Christine, leaving the elevator without a word said.

I felt oddly abandoned. For no reason, really, but still.

I meant to get out at the floor where Christine got on, I pressed the button and hid in the corner of the cabin as the elevator moved back down a few floors. I slapped my face to get myself back. Man up, Stephen. 

I walked past all the nurses and doctors staring at me like I’ve grown a second head since it’s so early and slid into the ER office, rushing out the young doctor Miles.

“But, doctor Strange, my shift isn’t over until 6.”

“Get home and get some sleep, Miles. I’m taking over,” I mumbled and practically made him get out of the chair to sit in it myself.

I rummaged through the patient papers in front of me and I could see in the corner of my eyes that he’s still standing at the table, dumbfounded, watching me.

I looked up at him and he had the audacity to not change the dense look on his face.

“I won’t ask again, I can find some equipment for you to sanitize if you won’t go home.”

He turned on his heel and the door slammed behind him as he left the office. Smart kid.

There are already 11 patients waiting for examination, that’s ridiculous. Don’t these people sleep? What are they doing getting hurt in the middle of the night?

First is sore throat, ridiculous. Anne Brownley, 28, shouldn’t a girl of this age know that a sore throat doesn’t belong to the ER? Get some cough syrup for Christ’s sake. And then there’s an ear infection, great, that’s what we have the ENT department for, you know, Mr. Corrin? 

I suddenly felt blue eyes reading through the papers together with me. Even when I knew she wasn’t there, her judgeful eyes stared at me, staring at the papers, and they didn’t like what they see. What would Christine do? She would probably not bad mouth a patient before taking them into the office. She’d listen to their story and do her best to make them feel better.

I kind of admire her for that. I admire people for doing what I can’t do.

I left my chair and walked into the waiting room, “Miss Anne Brownley, please.”

Anne Brownley; throat inflammation after a night spent in cabin in the woods with her boyfriend. Jacob Corrin; advanced stage of an ear infection, finally gave in to his wife’s bickering that he should go and get it looked at after his ear grew twice in size. Daisey McGregor; broken arm after she fell off her bed during a sleepover with her friend Sally. It’s immensely exhausting to listen to all of these stories. It’s even more exhausting to use my brain capacity just to register it all, I’m pretty sure I forgot some important latin words in favor of hearing about Anne Brownley’s boyfriend being a great cook. 

This isn’t my role, this isn’t what kind of doctor I am. It feels different to look at their charts now, it feels odd to read the description of their injury if I know who they are. It fuzzes my focus.

The worst part is that I didn’t even ask them for the stories, they just started talking and my brain didn’t turn off when it should’ve. I need to keep an eye on that, I never had this trouble before. 

But truth be told, I used to not have that many patients before I was put here in the ER.

I looked at the clock, it was nearing eight and the stack of papers on my table was not getting any smaller. For how long have I been here? 

The door suddenly flew open and Billy stormed in, “Doctor Strange, skull fracture. We suspect subarachnoid bleeding.”

I sprung up from my chair and followed him down the hall, “Vomiting?”

“And headaches, intense ones. She’s conscious and communicating but it’s mostly cries of pain.”

At this point my pace hastened and we rushed into the prep room, Billy helping me dress up. He pulled on my gloves and Christine walked in to prepare as well.

We are doing this operation together.

Good, I’m gonna need the hands of a good assistant.

“She’s on her way back from CT,” informed me Christine and Billy helped her with the gloves.

“Subarachnoid?” 

She nodded.

“Billy, we’re gonna need a number 4 drill.”

He left for the equipment and me and Christine entered the operation room. The patient has already been intubated and a nurse called Marie and Billy rolled in a table with the equipment.

I have full confidence in my hands and they stayed steady throughout the operation, together with Christine’s as she operated the camera and light. Drilling a hole into the skull allowed us to see the damage the bleeding has done, thankfully, it has not exceeded the arachnoid layer, but there was a blood clot. We removed a part of the patient’s skull, draining the blood clot in her brain and relieving pressure. She was stabilized and wheeled off to a post op room after six hours on the table.

Once again, I found myself washing hands side by side with Christine and it seemed like a familiar situation, like the most natural thing, except for the pressure on my brain that was still there and I wished it was me who had a hole drilled into his skull. She stayed silent and I heard her rubbing the suds in between her palms while I let the cold water warm up on the back of my hands.

_ wait for it to warm up, _

This is ridiculous.

_ rub palms together, _

“Stephen,” her voice broke through the silence and it felt like she silenced even the water running from the faucet, my mind registered only her voice. My eyes staring straight ahead of me.

“Great job today, you saved her life,” she almost whispered and walked off.

“Christine, wait,” I am honestly surprised at the level of bravery I’m showing right now.

_ turn the tap again. _

She turned to me and I faced her as well, walking up so there’s only a few feet between us.

“I’m not going to apologize for that article, I meant every word,” I just can’t help myself, can I? This is not how I should start this conversation. She didn’t roll her eyes yet, though. That’s a good sign, I suppose.

“I would never expect the great doctor Strange to apologize to us lowly ER surgeons,” she shot back and I had an urge to hold her to make sure she won’t leave with those words.

“But,” I tried to make the ‘but’ a big turning point but she looked almost disinterested.

It hurt more than it should.

I cleared my throat and scanned the room really quickly just to land with my eyes on hers. Blue and cold and piercing as ever. Nothing warm, nothing embracing anymore.

“Christine, after we started working together, I didn’t  _ hate  _ all of my time here. I can tell you that you’re a great surgeon but you already know that. I meant what I said. But I see now that I wasn’t completely right. Not about everybody. Not about you.”

My mind was blank in anticipation of her answer, or reaction, a look, anything. 

I just stood there like a statue while her eyes watched me in the same manner as before.

She sees me the same.

“Why are you telling me this, Stephen?” she leaned against the sink and her gaze drowned in the water disappearing in the drain. 

“Because I feel bad.”

She looked at me and I felt honored to just hold her gaze.

“I didn’t want to do this to you, you don’t deserve an embarrassment like that. I’m sorry, Christine.” 

It was so easy to say those words. Then why didn’t I think of them before? I don’t even feel weak for saying that, it felt right.

Her eyes changed and now they looked like those of a doe, pleading for mercy in front of a hunting dog. I don’t think I’m the dog but if I am, I want to just lie on my back and surrender. 

“Christine, no matter how valuable my time is,” I didn’t dare to get closer to her, I felt naked just telling her all of this, I wanted to get away all of sudden but I already started talking, “I wanted to spend it with you. It was not wasted.”

I was about to mumble and stumble over my words, if they were to have any weight or meaning to them, I needed to stop talking.

I dried off my hands, not daring to look into her eyes again and left the room.


	8. Chapter 8

It’s been a week since I last spoke with Christine besides an occasional “Hello” or a brief consultation about a case. It almost feels like we never got close to begin with. No more operations that we’d work on together as of now. My phone has been beeping with calls from Charles so often that I willingly lost it somewhere in my couch just so I don’t have to answer.

To be honest, I am not entirely sure why I don’t want to answer. I guess I just don’t feel ready to decide yet, or I’m simply feeling like a douchebag for throwing Metro General under the bus. Either way, my mind is occupied with other things at the moment. More important things, in my opinion.

One of my neurology practice patients reached out to me a few days ago, talented violin player. We first met when he crashed his bike, suffered a skull fracture and severe intracerebral bleeding, later showed signs of mild short term amnesia during rehabilitation. That was about a year ago, though. The rehabilitation process had gone well and as far as I know, he could be practicing for a concert at a filharmony by now. 

I was wrong about that assumption. He called my office and sounded scared. He worried about his mind slipping away, has been forgetting notations, rhythm, melodies. My gut tells me that it's not as serious as patients usually make it out to be, but we scheduled for an appointment and I got a pass from the director to abandon my ER duties for the day. I try to silent the voice in my head admitting that this case is heaven sent, allowing me to take my mind off this whole mess. Of course, I can't tell that to Damian.

No, instead I flipped the switch in my head that tuned me into the role I was always meant to play; the head neurosurgeon. My office had been vacant for a while now but it looked as shiny and neat as ever when I walked in. I actually took a moment just to take in the sweet smell of apple air refresher, the absence of sweat, blood or coffee made my head feel all kinds of tingly. It felt like coming home after a long field trip that you're gonna tell everybody about, but deep inside, you're just glad that it's over and want to relax. This was also the first day in a month when I wore leather shoes instead of sneakers and a casual suit jacket instead of a shirt with jeans. I was the good ol’ me again. At least for a day.

Damian arrived on time and I hardly recognized him. The man had black circles under his eyes, droopy lids, discolored lips. He was completely out of himself, even twitched like a scared bird when I shook his hand. It made me feel uneasy and suspecting, I didn't waste our time chatting and took him to the MRI right away.

“Stephen,” he grabbed my hand as he was seated on the bed. I could feel the anxiety pumping up the blood in his veins.

“Mr. London, we'll lie you down now, all right?” said Billy in a soothing voice.

“Hey, Damian,” I took his hand and laid it back down, “In a case there IS something wrong with you, I bet I'll be finally able to beat you in the next round?”

I pressed play on the screen of my phone and the best fine tunes of Chet Baker filled up the room, stretching a tired smile across Damian's face.

“Autumn Leaves, 1974. Chet Baker. I'm not letting you beat me even if I do lose my mind. Just to wipe that grin of your face.”

He shared a laugh with me as he laid down and the bed moved into the scan. It seemed to calm him down a little bit, it's never good to panic inside the tunnel. I left the room and stayed on the other side together with the tech.

I stood in a deafening sea of silent beeps and little flashing lights, watching the MRI through the window as the tech read out the readings to me. I started thinking about Damian and his work, about how I know who he is and what he does, his story. He's a lucrative patient for sure, and my practice is much more selective, so it's obvious he'd be getting more care from me. But I found myself thinking as Christine. Or what I think Christine thinks like.

Here she is again, back in my head. And I feel tired of suppressing it, I welcome her name in my thoughts like a much needed drink after a long day. She was always kind to her patients, it had to take up so much of her energy but that never stopped her. She cared for them. I imagine she felt the empathy I'm now feeling towards Damian. It makes me feel good to see a bit of her in my work but I feel like a douchebag for deciding that on my own. Maybe I'm lying to myself. 

And the most pathetic thing is, that I’m thinking only about me, while a patient may be suffering on the other side of that glass.

We finished the scan and I met Damian back in my office, he was wearing just the hospital gown and a weary look on his face. It was more than proper for the situation he found himself in. I spoke with the tech and called Damian’s physician before I walked into the door, he won’t like this.

“So, I got something good for you,” I said as I sat down behind my desk and his eyes lit up like a flashlight, “The scan showed no abnormal activity or clots.”

He smiled like a child and I could see how the weight physically fell off his shoulders.

“Dammit, Stephen. That’s so good to hear, you have no idea.” 

“But,” I continued and the strict look on my face stayed the same, “I know what’s behind your loss of memory.”

“You do? What is it?” he perked up and sat on the edge of his chair, eager to know the answer I knew he was aware of.

“Damian, how long have you been using?” 

“What?” I could see the denial spark in his eyes and it spoke more honestly than any of his words.

“Hydromorphone, morphine, codeine, oxycodone,” I started listing the drugs and I could see his sight going right through me into the wall behind, “methadone. Should I keep going?”

His head fell between his shoulders.

“This is all the drugs you’ve taken over the course of your rehabilitation, and they worked. They worked, didn’t they, Damian? They worked way too well.” 

“Stephen, doctor, please.”

“You demanded them from your physician but she didn’t want to give you any more. So you found other doctors who didn’t know about your drug record. You got prescription for all of those and more. Easy to just hide behind the pain that’s been long gone, huh?”

“Stephen,” he met my eyes and he was crying.

I felt inhuman as I pushed through, “Damian, how long?”

He was silent.

“I will attach my medical report to your file and name, Damian. You’ll be blacklisted from any physician in the US. Of course, that won’t stop you if you’re as far in as I imagine.”

“Three months,” gasped out silently Damian.

I settled and didn’t move for a while, just watching the broken man in front of me, hanging his head low in shame, clenching his hands together. His rehabilitation ended after five months of physical therapy last year. The guy’s been nonmedically using opioids for three months now, mild memory loss is one of the symptoms, add to it the sleepless nights clearly visible in the black circles under his eyes, the shakiness in his hands when he’s off the drug as he knew he’ll be in a hospital. For fuck’s sake, Damian. 

I let my sigh fill the silence in the office. My hands reached for a sticky note in my desk and I scribbled a number on it.

“Neurologically, you haven’t made any serious permanent damage, yet. Your neural memory connections are severed in a few places but it can be still fixed. Your brain wants to get clean so it’s fighting the drugs and as a result, it damages itself, resulting in your memory loss and overall confusion. This can be cleared out in a few weeks by absolute abstinence.”

I handed him the blue piece of paper and he reached for it with caution, his eyes read through the numbers and letters one by one.

“What is this?”

“Number for a friend of mine working at the Addiction Institute in Manhattan. He can get you clean and help with the withdrawal symptoms as they won’t be easy.”

He looked at me with fear in his eyes. I would have said that it hurt me as much as it hurt him, but then I’d be lying. I’m not the person to help with these situations, I can just call him out on being stupid.

“You got a future, Damian. Don’t throw it away.” 

He nodded as if he understood but I could tell it was a reflex more than a reaction. He took the paper and stood up.

“There are no more examinations to be done. Billy will show you to the patient room where your clothes are.”

Again, he nodded. And like a dog obeying an order, he turned around and left the room. 

It’s not like I needed to hear ‘thank you’ or something, I really didn’t. I’m not helping him much, I set him up on a path full of withdrawal pain. That is, if he decides to go for the rehab. He could as well just get the drugs off the grid.

I put away his file and sat at my computer, staring blankly at the screen. My fingers pressed the keys on the keyboard and within a minute the report was done and all of Damian’s medical history forever shining with a drug misuse alert. 

This means the rest of the day was off for me and I packed up my things and put on my jacket, ready to leave and go home. The clock in my office said 3.25pm when I took the door handle and opened it to see Christine in front of me. What is this? Christine ex-machina just when I’ve had a humanity-questioning day. 

The oddest thing was that I didn’t know why she was here. 

She didn’t really have any more reasons to talk to me, aside from case consultations, but she’s not holding any files or a clipboard.

“Stephen, can I talk with you?”

“Sure,” I step aside and she joined me in my office, closing the door behind her.

“Sorry, are you leaving? I don’t want to keep you here or something.”

“No, no. I got some time to spare.”

I always do, Christine. Not for everybody, but for you, I do. 

“Good, that’s good,” she rubbed her hands together and looked around cautiously.

This feels like a relationship talk, only a week after we even had something resembling it. More like a lovers status, really. 

“Stephen, I didn’t really want to talk with you.”

Go figure. I know that. But I can’t really blame you.

“I’ve been avoiding you for a few days now,” she looked at me so sincerely, I really hoped I was returning it but I didn’t feel any of the muscles in my face, “And I’m done with that now.”

“All right,” I rasped a bit and stood up tall, waiting for her to continue.

“It’s stupid to just repeat what you already know, so I won’t,” she puffed the fringe out of her face and I tried to ignore the blush coloring her cheeks, “I appreciate you coming to tell me what you told me.”

I felt my heart beating harder, heating up the bones under my skin, no matter how medically impossible that was.

Her voice hitched at every other word, “It wasn’t easy for you to _ apologize _ .”

“I wasn’t apologizing.”

“I know, just,” she touched my chest with her fist and let out a deep breath. I understood that. Just shut up, Stephen. 

“You seemed to care about my feelings there for a moment,” she smiled as if it was meant to be a joke, “And I honestly didn’t think you’d ever do something like that.”

“Why?” I sounded more weak than I intended to. She tilted her head and her eyes found mine, this time it wasn’t cold or harsh, no, this time her eyes beamed with warmth as I remembered them from my car, from her apartment. 

“I thought you don’t care about people like me,” she stepped closer and held my shirt, “But you do. In your own sense of word.” She bit her tongue and looked down and let go of me, “I guess I just wanted to tell you that you do have some good qualities. You’re not just all ego.” 

She laughed and looked at me and I gladly surrendered to smile back.

“I heard you, you know.” 

“What?” she smiled while asking and it made my choice of words more confident.

“I heard what you said about me to the patient we operated on. What was his name? Mr. Hobble?”

“Mr. Hebert,” she silently corrected me, staring at me in anticipation of my next sentence. 

“You said nice things about me. So many of them,” now I was the one gazing at the floor as if I read my lines off the individual boards, “I’m not gonna lie and say that nobody ever said anything like that about me. They did,” I mustered up the courage and my sight laid upon Christine’s hand, going up her arm to her face, “But I guess I just never heard someone say it while I was not in the room. And not to me.”

The smile I gave was the weakest performance I’ve ever seen and I’m pretty sure she recognized that once our eyes met again.

“Thank you, Christine,” people usually thank for something specific, but that’s not the case right now. I’m just thankful in general.

“I wish you all the best, I really do,” I sniffed to try and push away the weak feeling that was creeping up on me. Go away, feelings. I’m not about to cry.

“Wow, that sounds a bit final,” she chuckled and rubbed my arm with her thumb.

“It is,” I got back the control over my voice and together with it I lost the happiness shining in her eyes, “I got an offer from Greater New York Hospital.”

Her hand stopped moving and her sight went right through me for a second. With a few blinks and a quick gasp, her hand gravitated back to her side and she look around my office, avoiding my eyes.

“And you took it,” she was careful to not let her voice slip.

“I probably will, yeah,” I watched her battle with tears coming up to her eyes as she wiped them away. I couldn’t stand it so I looked away as well, playing with the strap on my bag.

“Of course, they won’t shelve you away at the ER like they did here, huh?” she flashed a smile that I didn’t know whether it was honest or sarcastic, “Well, good luck. I wish you the best as well.”

Now she gave me a real smile, with happy wrinkles stretching the red skin around her eyes. It hurt. It hurt a whole lot more than I would've guessed. Saying goodbye. 

“Thanks, Christine,” I cleared my throat and felt so angry at how stupid and helpless I felt right now. She stood there for a few more seconds until the silence was unbearable and then turned around and left. I heard the door close but didn’t look, not before I took a few deep breaths.

I grabbed my bag and left. And I took the elevator down to the garage. And I drove home.

This is a good thing, isn’t it? Christine came to me and actually wanted to clear things up. And we did. I should feel good. I should feel some kind of closure. But as my finger hovered above the call button for Charles, I didn't feel anything. No happiness, no closure, no relief, excitement. Literally nothing. 

The phone started ringing before I could decide.

I’m done avoiding Charles and this opportunity. I just got to decide once and for all.

I answered the phone, “Yes, doctor Stephen Strange.”


	9. Chapter 9

Christine.

She’s the one calling.

“Stephen? This is Charles Berry. I’ve been trying to reach you for a while now. Is your phone okay?” chuckled the voice on the other side.

Christine is not calling.

What happened just now? Why did my brain think it would be her? Why did I wish it to be her? And why is it him?

“Yeah, my phone is fine,” I felt it necessary to actually answer and not just leave him hanging. I meant to call him this whole time, I’ve got no idea why I’m stuck like this. “Yes, Charles. I’m sorry. I’ve actually meant to call you.”

“You did? That’s great news, Stephen. Have you decided?”

“Yes.”

I have.

“I’m not taking the offer, Charles. I’m sorry.”

“Ah, I see,” he sounded disappointed, “Are you sure, Stephen?”

“Yes, I am. Metro General is the hospital for me.”

“All right. I see that you’ve already made up your mind.”

The call didn’t end until a few minutes later but I don’t recall anything else from our conversation. What I do recall is the feeling of relief when I dropped my phone on the couch and slouched down right next to it.

I didn’t even think about the answer, it just slipped out. As easily and naturally as commands during an operation or words of thanks while accepting an award. It feels right to stay where I am now. I’ve got a reason or two to stay. One of them is named Christine.

I stood up and slid down the floor to my kitchen with an intention of making a sandwich. My feet felt lighter. My mind felt lighter, too. And for some unknown reason I didn’t feel guilty anymore. Guilty, stupid or foolish, none of those. I felt finally right after a few weeks of feeling like a piece of shit. It was easy to take a shower, it was easy to fall asleep tonight.

I’ve never felt more myself even though I was fixing a dislocated shoulder at the ER. My practice was about to become my daily routine again in a few weeks and I felt happy to see my usual patients and come back to what I excel at but I wasn’t grasping for it anymore.

I even managed to keep my composure as Christine approached me once I was back in my practice, mouth agape, giving me a sly little smile that looked more hopeful than she probably meant to.

“Doctor Strange?”

“Yes, doctor Palmer.”  

We stood on the hallway facing each other, file of my patients in my hand, file of her patients in hers. Scrubs on, the both of us.

It felt familiar. As did the glint in her eyes, asking questions she didn’t want to say out loud. Coziness was not what I expected from this talk, even when I knew it was coming. I expected... I don’t know. I didn’t actually think about it.

Would you have missed me if I went?

Are you happy I stayed?

The smile that spread on her face made me realize that I don’t really want to know the answer to those questions.

I’m too scared of either option. Too scared to have someone this good. Too scared to have her reject me. I think I will settle for her smiling like that.

I smiled back.

“Help me with a treatment?” she slapped my chest with the file.

“Over dinner?” I shot back.

 

_The end_


End file.
